


Remembering Again

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Porthos make up for some lost time. They have the time now. Aramis won't waste it. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Again

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR 3x01, THE SPOILS OF WAR.**
> 
>  
> 
> So yes. I mean. Vaguely spoilers. Let's be real: this is just 7k words of pwp. But it's the first time in months that I've written this much of just one story, and just one story of pwp. So I'll call that a success. This season is incredibly inspiring, haha. 
> 
> Also bottom Porthos. Cause I say so.

When they get back to Paris, meet again with Treville, leave d’Artagnan to his reunion with Constance, Athos gives Porthos and Aramis one look and then turns away with a sigh. 

“I have work to do,” he says, nodding towards Treville. “You two should get settled.” 

Aramis’ spine straightens, suddenly, with the weighted reality of what that could mean. Time to himself. Time away. Time with Porthos. He looks to Porthos – sees Porthos glancing his way with a small smile before he’s turning and walking out the door, away from Aramis. Aramis stands for about two seconds, seems to remember himself, and walks quickly after him. Their time together might be tentative again – but he won’t mistake a sign like that. In the end, they always did orbit each other. In the end, even four years apart wasn’t enough to break their silent communication. 

“Porthos,” he begins, unsure what to say, unsure how to voice what it is he needs and—

Porthos’ hand closes around his wrist and he tugs. 

“Come on,” Porthos says. “My room should still be in one piece.” 

Aramis hardly needs to be told twice. Together, they walk quickly down the steps of the garrison, towards Porthos’ lodgings – and it saves Aramis the trouble of having to say something, to scramble to find a place to stay for his first night back in Paris. Porthos lets go of his wrist, for the sake of being out in the open only, Aramis knows. They get back to his room, Porthos shuts the door, turns towards him and—

And his smile turns shy, almost boyish. “Hey,” he says, walking towards him. His hand sreach out as if to touch and then hesitate, as if unsure. He says, “Welcome back.” 

The room is full of dusty and has that distinctly mildew scent of a room that has not been aired out in – well, years. It makes Aramis’ heart lurch into his throat to think that – Porthos is welcoming him home again. They are both here, together. Seeing this room again for the first time in years – together. He will not get overly emotional over something so absurd, but he feels weightless in exactly one moment. 

Aramis sucks in a sharp breath against the sudden press of too many unspoken things in his throat. He will not get emotional, he will not disregard this – not when Porthos is here in front of him, not when Porthos is _here_. 

“Thank you,” Aramis whispers. 

He reaches for Porthos, can’t stand to see those hands hovering—

They undress without ceremony. It has been _so long_ since he’s last done this, with anyone, not just Porthos, and it’s overwhelming. He reaches for him, fumbles a little with the clasps of his armor. He’s never had to remove _armor_ before, and it’s when his hands fasten around the buckles holding it in place that the full weight of the last four years presses in on him. How many times did Porthos come close to death? How many times did Porthos wade into a battle and not have Aramis at his back? How many times over could Aramis have lost him, only to learn about it years later? 

His hands are shaking. Porthos catches them, must know what Aramis is thinking even if neither voice it aloud. He kisses his fingertips. Murmurs, “It’s alright, Aramis.”

And it is. It has to be. He breathes out and smiles. “Yes,” he says, stepping closer, unlatching one of the buckles and leaning in to catch Porthos’ mouth. “It’s alright.” 

In another time, he’d have worried – not wanting _alright_ but wanting _perfect_. Somehow the understanding that it can’t be perfect is enough to fuel him on. They’re both here. That’s all that matters. 

The armor falls away with a clatter – and it’s what he remembers best of Porthos: dusty uniform, worn thin after so many years, but still the same as he remembers. He runs his fingers over the fishscale leather of his doublet, and then without ceremony just starts stripping Porthos down. This is what he wants, what he plans to do: to take his time, to savor it, to run his fingers over his skin for the first time in years. To mark every single inch of his skin with the tips of his fingers until he’s drunk on the sight of him. 

But when faced with Porthos again, after so long, the matter does not prove as savoring – it is not a matter of patience. His hands are shaking, his entire body is shaking – and he _needs_ to be in Porthos’ arms again, needs to feel him again. He lets out a small, keening whimper and leans up to kiss Porthos. His hands keep working, pushing the clothes away, smoothing down his shoulders and arms – and he kisses Porthos as if he is drowning. 

Porthos, for his part, has always been exceptionally gentle with him – but not without his impatience. He hardly needs coaxing to get Aramis’ clothes off as quickly, too. The clothes fall around them in waves of hurried movement, broken only occasionally for the need to keep kissing, hands gripping at each other. They fumble at each other, hands hitting one another in their attempt to undress the other. They stumble backwards towards Porthos’ bed, and Porthos tumbles backwards until he’s sprawled out. Aramis climbs up after him, straddles his hips, leans down and kisses him – hungry and needy. Porthos’ hands touch his bare shoulders, presses his fingers into the curve of his neck, kneading, and then shifting up into his hair – curling around and tugging. Aramis moans out weakly, already overwhelmed just from that. 

Aramis breaks the kiss long enough to tug his hair free from its ribbon, lets it spill forward to cover his eyes until Porthos lifts his hands and pushes it away from his face, framing his jaw with his hands, thumbs at his cheekbones. 

Porthos gives him a small smile, still shy – but with the smallest of hard edges. He is not, in the end, fully forgiven – but tonight they can have this. Tonight, it will be enough. What will come, will come – but Aramis knows where he needs to be. Aramis knows that he will have to do much to bridge the gap again, but he is grateful for the opportunity that he might do so – grateful that in this, Porthos does not turn away from him. Grateful that, in the end, Porthos’ heart is too large and too forgiving to ever want to be without him. The full extent of that kindness is almost painful. Aramis won’t hurt him again. He promises to himself that he won’t. 

“We’ll…” Aramis begins, swallows down and then gives a shaky laugh. He runs his fingertips over Porthos’ collarbone, considers their next move. “We’ll have to go slow – it’s… it’s been a while for me.” 

Porthos chuffs out a laugh – not at him, but a soft exhale. Some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. “Me too, you know.” 

“Really?” Aramis asks, surprised.

Porthos shrugs one shoulder. “Not a lot of opportunities during wartime.” 

Aramis hums – feels a small pang low in his gut. Something he never had to experience – something that Porthos can speak to, but Aramis cannot have knowledge of. Years of battles, years of wounds and near-misses. He was not there. There are stories now that Porthos has that Aramis will only ever know as stories. That hasn’t been the case since before they met. He’d always had Porthos’ back before, he’d always—

He will be here now. Always. 

Aramis traces his fingers over Porthos’ arms – leans back enough to actually get a look at him now that he isn’t frenzied with undressing and kissing. Porthos is leaner than he remembers – the armor gave the illusion of bulk where there are signs of hunger at his ribs. Not enough to mistake him for overly thin, and perhaps Aramis’ own mind’s eye has given Porthos more width in the years without seeing him, but it stands out to him. And he is covered in scars Aramis has never seen before. He traces over one at the center of his chest, dipping down low enough towards the swell of his stomach, inhaling and exhaling around Porthos’ breath. It is jagged, raw. Faded at the corners. He has no idea how old it is now, no idea how he might have gotten it. There’s a similar one at his left bottom-most rib. At his hip. A few on his shoulders, biceps, one on his forearm, another across the back of his hand. 

Aramis touches them all, catalogs them away – hopes his face does not betray just how heartbreaking it is to see him covered in wounds he wasn’t there to prevent, wasn’t there to stitched back together again. 

Porthos stays still, lets him do that. Aramis breathes out and leans down, kisses Porthos’ jaw. Then leans down and kisses his throat, shimmies down over him so he can kiss his chest – lingering at each new scar, his stomach twisted up and his heart heaved into his throat. He breathes out shakily as he drags his lips over his collarbone. 

Porthos’ fingers tangle up into his hair as Aramis kisses his stomach, the long, crooked scar there. Then he tugs, pulls Aramis back up again so he can kiss him properly. Aramis makes a mournful sound but returns the kiss – sloppy and slow, holding tight to Porthos, feeling the shift and arch of his body beneath him, the bow of his back, the curve of his muscles, the rise and bumps of new scars. Porthos’ hands sweep down his back, cup his ass, draw him forward so he’s pressing to him. Aramis makes a soft sound of surprise, moaning out at the manhandling. Even that is almost too much. He will not last nearly as long as he wants to. 

He kisses Porthos slowly – as slowly as he can manage, when it feels as if the entire weight of four years is pressing down on him, and all he wants to do is _go, go, keep going_ – but he can feel Porthos’ tongue against his lips, licking into his mouth as Aramis runs his hands over his chest, along his shoulders, down his arms. He’s sinking into the kiss, sighing out breathlessly and making soft, little sounds he knows – remembers – that Porthos likes. Porthos is in every one of his senses – the feel of him against him, the sound of his breath against his teeth, the taste of his lips, the smell of the air around them (unpleasant, but made bearable by Porthos being there), the sight of him, the way he presses their foreheads together when they break for air—

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, voice already breathless and wrecked. Just from this. A little whimper escapes him as Porthos’ drags his hands over his back, holds him close, feels his body arching beneath him. 

Aramis wants more, needs more – wants every inch of them pressed together. He draws back again – makes himself do so – unable to drag his eyes away from Porthos’ body, at seeing him again after so long. His breath goes ragged. 

He reaches out, touches Porthos’ cock – already hard, twitching when his fingers brush – and Porthos sucks in a sharp, stuttering breath. 

Aramis bites his lip and curls his fingers around him, testing the bulk of him, remembering again the full girth and weight of his cock in his hand. He spent so many nights devoting every inch of Porthos to his memory – knew everything that Porthos could need, could want, knew exactly how to twist his fingers, drag his tongue, spread him open. So many nights spent like that, in easy company, without any hurry, without any longing like this—

“Porthos,” Aramis says again, his breath lodged tight in his throat as he gives Porthos’ cock an experimental tug and stroke. The cock is fat in his hand, thick, and he squeezes if only to hear the way Porthos’ breath hitches, the way his hips twitch off of the bed. 

“Fuck,” Porthos gasps out, and then gives a breathless laugh – embarrassed. “It’s – it’s been a _long_ time.” 

“We – ” Aramis begins.

He stares down at his hand as it strokes over Porthos’ cock – unable to look away from it, already know the way Porthos’ face morphs into suddenly looking younger, like the first time they ever did this, Porthos’ cock surprisingly thick in Aramis’ hand, overwhelmed with the thought of it being inside of him. 

“We have time now…” he whispers. He squeezes, delights in the sound of Porthos’ moan. “We can – we’ll make sure it lasts.” 

Porthos gives a breathless laugh. His hands fall to cup his hips. And then one hand shifts and drags his palm over his cock in turn – and Aramis stutters out a surprised moan, rocking forward with such force that it takes them both by surprise. Even from this, Aramis is shaking.

“Ah,” he says, his turn to be embarrassed. He glances up at Porthos. And Aramis laughs, feels the heat in his cheeks even as Porthos gives him a wide, ridiculous grin. “Oh… we’re both fools, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” Porthos agrees, propping himself up onto his elbows and pushing himself up. Aramis shifts back a little so Porthos can sit up properly, tilts his head as Porthos cup his cheek and leans in to kiss him – slow and sure. Aramis shivers feeling the curve of his smile against his mouth, and delights in the way it widens when Porthos squeezes his cock again and makes Aramis moan out in shocked surprise. They keep kissing – as if they cannot stand to keep kissing, as if nothing else matters in the way of being this close to each other, swallowing down their sounds, sharing their breath. 

Porthos bends his head, laying a sucking kiss against Aramis’ collarbone. Aramis whines out, one hand lifting to drag into his hair. 

Aramis drags his hand over his cock with one hand, his other playing with his hair. When Porthos lets out a little moan and presses their foreheads together, Aramis can’t help the pathetic little laugh that bubbles out of his throat. He brushes his nose to Porthos’, feels Porthos’ breath ghost over his mouth.

“God…” Aramis whispers. “You’re as beautiful as I remember.” 

Porthos’ hand cups the back of his head and he kisses Aramis – patient and kind and _sweet_ , so much so that it’s nearly heartbreaking. Aramis gives a small hiccup of a laugh. 

“So are you,” Porthos tells him, voice thick, instead of protesting the compliment as he once might have. When Aramis blinks his eyes open, he can see that Porthos’ eyes are misty. 

Aramis touches his cheek, fans his thumb out over his jaw. “Oh, Porthos.” 

“Come on,” Porthos whispers against his mouth. “Let’s make this last.”

Aramis nods once, and then resumes kissing Porthos with all that he’s worth – kissing him deep and slow, sucking at his lips, at his tongue, sweeping into his mouth and moaning and gasping out his name, rocking his hips forward so that his cock plumps up against Porthos’, lets them both feel that drag. 

Porthos’ groan in response is almost pained, and Aramis can’t help but mimic it – leaning in to kiss him, slow and gentle, rocking his hips forward with breathless little pants. Porthos cups his hips, guides him along, and together they rut against each other. Even from this, Aramis’ heart is stuttering in his chest, and he knows he will not last if they continue doing this alone – and even four years away from the last he did this with him, he can recognize the jerky sputters of Porthos’ hips and understands that this, too, would be enough for them both to fall—

He kisses Porthos, thumbs digging into the space behind his ear as if afraid to let go, just wanting to kiss and touch – just wanting to keep this, wanting to kiss him breathless. Porthos moans out quietly, swallows around Aramis’ answering gasps. But he needs to make this last. He needs—

He kisses him one last time, quietly, and then draws back, breathing heavily. “Wait.” 

Porthos stops obediently, looking at him with a bewildered look – pupils blown, mouth slightly parted with need for air, to kiss. Aramis’ heart twists up again. 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asks, sounding as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

Aramis shakes his head quickly. “Nothing! Oh, no, nothing…” He leans in again, kisses Porthos a few times to reassure, feels the beginning of a smile before he draws back again. “I only…” he pauses, pressing his forehead to Porthos’ so their noses might bump. “I only want this to last, my friend.”

Porthos laughs, softly, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up. Aramis, in that moment, finds himself falling even more deeply in love than he ever thought possible. It physically aches in his chest. He runs a hand down Porthos’ arm, tracing a scar on his forearm. His free hand cups his cheek, thumbs over those crows feet. Porthos’ laughter dims, gently, although the smile still lingers – and he leans into the touch. 

“… I missed you,” Porthos admits, and though his eyes are warm, there is a pained jag to the words. Aramis aches. He bows his head, brushes his nose to his, kisses him once, twice – three more times. Just because he can. Just because he never wants to stop. 

“I missed you, too,” Aramis whispers. “Every day.” 

Aramis wraps his hand, then, around Porthos’ cock – considers his size, the shape of him. It’s been too long. He can’t stop touching – he doesn’t _want_ to stop touching. But soon Porthos is familiar again – the heave of his breath, the slide of his cock against his palm, the shudder of his hips. 

“This is you making it last?” Porthos manages to gasp out, weakly. A warning – he’ll come if Aramis keeps doing this. He isn’t pulling back, though, instead he’s gripping Aramis’ hip tightly with one hand, the other sliding up his back in absent strokes, trying to tug him in closer without actually guiding him – never using his strength for anything other than to protect, never to own, never to control. Aramis’ heart thuds up into his throat again. He’s getting too emotional, too sentimental. 

Aramis smiles as he kisses down Porthos’ chest – plants one hand on his shoulder to help him lie out properly again – drags his lips and tongue and teeth over his skin, feels the heave of Porthos’ breath. Aramis hums out, his entire body shaking with longing as he kisses down his chest. 

“Porthos,” he says, quietly. “Will you let me suck you off?” 

Porthos barks out a laugh before he can stop it, looks so bewildered and overwhelmed even with the question. Aramis can feel Porthos’ cock twitch in his hand and he can’t help but shimmy his own hips forward, overwhelmed enough that he nearly spends out over Porthos’ stomach. But no. He’ll make this last. And it’s been so long – so long, too long – since he last let his mouth drag all over Porthos’ skin.

Porthos’ grin is crooked when he says, “Do you even have to ask?” 

His hand tangles up into Aramis’ hair and Aramis preens, arches his back and tips his head to expose the long line of his throat. Porthos drags him up briefly to kiss at his neck, dragging his teeth, sucking a bruise at the curve of his shoulder. Aramis shudders, overwhelmed by the pleasant touch. 

“Please,” Aramis gasps out, tugging himself free and squirming down Porthos’ body – dropping quick kisses over his chest, his stomach, lingering on those scars. One hand cups Porthos’ hip, the other strokes over his cock and he leans in – drags his tongue over the head of his cock, winds his tongue around it gently, soothing, lapping his tongue. Porthos jolts like a shock’s run through him and Aramis gasps out weakly, trying to keep him pinned down. 

It’s been so long. Four years. Four years without this – and Aramis knows he is out of practice, knows that he fumbles a bit. He goes too quickly, tries to swallow down around him and immediately chokes. He jerks back, blinking once. Porthos laughs out, breathless and teasing despite himself – and Aramis feels himself blush and then grin. 

“Hush,” he says, smoothing his hand over Porthos’ thigh, the raised edge of an old, faded scar he _does_ recognize from years and years ago. “You are not small, darling.” 

Porthos snorts, scooting up a little, bending one knee and balancing his weight back on his elbows. “Hey,” he says. “You don’t have to—”

Aramis stubbornly ducks his head and curls his mouth around the cockhead, suckling mercilessly – if only so that Porthos lets out a muffled little shout. 

The hand in his hair, though, is gentle – cradles his head with no intent of guiding. Just gives Aramis room, breathing out against his cock as he pillows his lips, licks long stripes up his cock in slow little licks. Reminds himself of this feeling, reminds himself of the way it should feel. He follows the length of his cock with his tongue, hums out around a low moan, mouths at Porthos’ balls and back up the curve of his cock. 

It is, perhaps, overly ambitious of him to try to deepthroat him. It’s been too long for that. So he does the best he can with the circumstances, stroking at the base of his cock as he swallows around the cockhead, unable to bob down as low as he once could have. Perhaps again, with practice. Next time. The time after that. He will make sure there is a next time, a time after that, and a time after that – won’t ever give this up again if he can help it. 

To make up for it, he makes himself be noisy – appreciative sounds around the size of Porthos’ cock, the way he fits into his mouth, the slide of his tongue, the hollowing of his cheeks. He sucks him down, licks around him, drags his lips, peppers kisses over him – shivers appreciatively when Porthos tugs at his hair, grunts and digs his heels into the bed, arches up and moans. He’s shivering, full-bodied and unrestrained, his hips shuddering with the urge to rock up into Aramis’ mouth. He’s so close. So close. He could get him off with just this—

Aramis doesn’t rush. Lets himself slow. Drags his mouth back to pant and stare up at Porthos with open admiration. Porthos is breathless, chest heaving, sweat beading at his forehead. His hand is tight in his hair. It’s taking everything he has not to come. So Aramis gives him time, hovers above him and does not touch until Porthos is backed off away from the edge. 

Aramis smiles at him, turns his head to kiss Porthos’ wrist. He grins at him, breathless himself, painfully hard and rocking his hips to gain some kind of friction against the blanket beneath him. He slides his free hand over Porthos’ stomach, his hip, his thigh, cups the back of his knee to draw his leg up more so he can press sloppy kisses to his inner thigh, the crux of his leg to his hip. 

He waits until Porthos gives an impatient, tugging reminder to a lock of his hair. They exchange crooked, helpless grins.

Aramis leans back in, goes slower this time, licks at his cock, curls his tongue around the head, swallows him down. He moves slowly, at the wrong angle but more intent on touching Porthos than to swallow him down. He runs his hands over his thighs, cups his balls, strokes at the base of his cock, strokes over his stomach, along the lines of scars. He can recognize the way Porthos shudders, the way he tugs on his hair – trying to draw him back. Both their movements are jerky, unpracticed. 

Aramis whines out, draws back enough to moans, drag his lips over his cock. Says, “Come in me. Come on—”

And Porthos hardly needs to be told more than that as Aramis draws his lips over the cockhead and suckles, drinks him down as Porthos comes – both hands settling on the back of Aramis’ head, guiding him forward as he thrusts up into his mouth. Aramis doesn’t flinch at the taste of come on his tongue – although it is unfamiliar now, after so many years – but he closes his eyes, shivers full-bodied, and moans weakly as he drinks him down. 

It is almost too much. Porthos rocks into his mouth, slowly – betraying that he is not, in fact, without his control. But his fingers are twisted up tight in Aramis’ hair and Aramis moans out, swallowing down around him. Even just from this, his jaw aches. He’ll have to get better at this again. Still, they are both so without practice – Porthos shivers, falls backwards onto his back, arching his hips a few more times before stilling. 

Aramis crawls up Porthos’ body, lies down against him, his cock fitting into the hollow of Porthos’ hip, before he leans down and starts kissing him. Porthos moans out, cups his chin to keep him close and kisses him slow and messy, tastes himself on Aramis’ tongue. Aramis is achingly hard, rocking slowly against him, his body already peaking towards the edge. He tries to hold himself back. 

He draws away from the kiss, licks at Porthos’ lips, and whispers, “Good?” 

Porthos laughs, breathless, and kisses him a few more times before mumbling a quiet, “Yeah, good.” 

Aramis is trying to catch his breathing again when Porthos’ hand drags down his stomach, reaches for his cock. Aramis gasps out when Porthos starts to coax him towards the edge, but quickly Aramis plants his hands on his shoulders – heaving himself up and shaking his head.

“No, no, wait,” he gasps out – and Porthos stops immediately, blinking up at him. “I – I want…” 

“What is it?” Porthos prompts, carefully, looking flushed and happy and blissed out – and it’s the first time, Aramis realizes with a pang, that he’s seen him like this in far too long. Sex-blissed and hair-mushed, his smile gentle and serene. How he’d always want to picture Porthos – smiling, light in his hair, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Aramis says, punctuating this declaration with a kiss to Porthos’ nose, then forehead, then mouth, “And I want to fuck you, too.” 

He wants everything. Everything and anything – all of it. He has four years to make up for it. They have more than tonight, but tonight – tonight, he wants it all again. 

Porthos, for his part, looks thunderstruck – and then his grin splits wide and he laughs. “Sounds good.” 

Aramis laughs, ducking his head to kiss Porthos again – who kisses him back, slow and gentle, deepening it quickly. 

“Do you think…” Aramis begins, drawing back to look around, squinting at Porthos’ measly supplies. They can find some way around it, if need be – it’ll only take longer, but, “Oil?” 

Porthos pushes at Aramis’ hips – and Aramis obediently scrambles off of him, making room as Porthos sits up, rolling out of the bed and poking around his room as quickly as he can. Aramis leans back on the bed and watches him move, easily through his room as if he hasn’t been gone for years, one of the long curls of his hair flopping over his forehead, brow knitted in concentration, ass right there to admire. Oh yes, Aramis quite likes this arrangement. 

He’s grinning when Porthos finally does locate some oil, turning towards him and holding it up – looking overly pleased and triumphant. Aramis only lifts his eyebrow and beckons him closer, slicking his hand over his own cock just to be obscene – and then regrets it immediately with how close he feels, shuddering and letting his eyes flutter shut, gasping out Porthos’ name. 

“Now you’re just showing off,” Porthos murmurs, and he’s so close – his voice deep and gravelly, and Aramis really does shudder as Porthos pushes him back, crawling up over him. When Aramis opens his eyes again, it’s only in time for Porthos to lean down and kiss him.

They exchange sloppy, slow kisses – Aramis dragging his tongue over his lip, Porthos nibbling into his bottom lip in turn. 

He feels Porthos shifting above him, working the cork off of the oil. He bites at Aramis’ lip as he draws back, lingering close enough that he only has to speak in a small whisper against his mouth. “Who first?” 

“Well… I’m still hard,” Aramis points out. He reaches for the bottle, which Porthos hands over willingly – shifts so he’s straddling Aramis, leaning down over him, careful not to put too much pressure on his cock. He must realize just how close Aramis feels, too. 

Aramis gives him a ridiculously soppy smile, considering the situation – and Porthos grins back, lighting up his eyes. They must look utterly ridiculous, and Aramis finds that he does not care. There is a certain joy to how easily they fall back into sync with one another. How easily this becomes natural again. He takes the oil and pours it liberally into his hand, some of it dripping down onto his stomach. He shivers at the feeling of it, cool and slick. He coats his fingers in it and then looks up at Porthos. 

“Closer, darling,” he advices, and Porthos shifts closer, spreads his legs for him. It’s a wonderful feeling, to think that they can fall back into this rhythm again as if no time has passed. That they know, instinctively, what it is that they both want. 

“Go slow, yeah?” Porthos says, voice a low rumble. “Been a while.” 

Aramis sits up enough to kiss him gently, then strokes his hand into the cleft of his ass. Porthos makes a soft, keening sound and rocks his hips forward. He’s still soft from his orgasm, recovering still, but pushed up against his stomach, Aramis can feel it give a feeble twitch of interest just from that. They’re in for a long night, he thinks with absent glee. 

He slides one finger inside of Porthos – moving slowly, unbearably slowly for both of them. But it’s necessary. It’s been too long, for both of them. Porthos ducks his head and groans – some of his hair falling in front of his eyes. Aramis marvels at it, thinks on the last time he saw Porthos – how much shorter his hair and beard were, how unscarred he was like he is now. Aramis smoothes his hand down the inside of Porthos’ thigh, which shakes beneath his fingertips. He smiles at him, finds Porthos glancing at him, smiling back with blown pupils, flushed cheeks. He’s so damn beautiful when he smiles like that. 

Like this, four years ago, Aramis was a tease – took too long, dragged it out until Porthos was shuddering with desire, swearing at him to _hurry up._ Now, he goes slow with care, but with a feeling of desperation in the pit of his stomach. Longing. Aching. He’s wanted this for so long – they both have, and now they can have it. But he won’t hurt Porthos. He won’t rush this. 

“This alright?” Aramis whispers against his mouth.

Porthos bites at his lip. “I said go slow, but I’m not going to break.” 

“I know,” Aramis breathes out, strokes his finger inside of him as he nuzzles against his jaw. “But I won’t hurt you.”

He’s already done that too much. He won’t do it again if he can help it, under any circumstances. 

Porthos takes the oil from him. Aramis blinks once, dazed, as Porthos pops the cork with his teeth, grinning at him. Aramis stutters out a shallow breath, watching Porthos pour oil onto his own fingers, slick himself up, and then press his fingers up against Aramis, in turn. 

Aramis gasps. “Oh—!”

“You did say both of us,” Porthos reminds him, breathless, and strokes over him – only hinting at penetration, but not actually pressing in. “Come on.”

“Yes,” Aramis whimpers. “Oh, God. _Please_.” 

Aramis adds a second finger inside of Porthos, taking his time, twisting his fingers until Porthos’ hips ease forward and he loosens enough that Aramis can start spreading his fingers. Porthos swallows down thickly with a weak, helpless moan. 

Like this, they share the oil, twisting their fingers inside of each other. It takes some adjustment for Aramis to spread his legs properly, but soon Porthos has two fingers inside of him, taking his time, careful not to hit his prostate or stroke too hard and risk Aramis coming before he’s ready. Aramis is practically shuddering with the need to. Porthos’ free hand is wrapped around the base of Aramis’ cock, squeezing tight to keep him from falling off the edge. But even Aramis’ patience is running ragged – he is usually so good with patience, usually the one to tease. 

He twists three fingers inside of Porthos, watches the way his breath hitches, mouth opening, back arching. He breathes out harshly through his nose, so desperately wanting to be inside of him, and making himself hold back. He watches the way Porthos’ hand disappears between his legs, stroking into him. Watches the way Porthos’ cock starts to plump up again between his legs under the guide of Aramis’ gasps and moans, his fingers inside of Porthos’ ass. 

They continue in this way, slowly spreading each other, the only sounds for a while the soft gasps of their breath, a few breathless moans. Porthos’ fingers are inside him, stretching him, thicker than he remembers but slim and spreading. He twists his fingers inside of Porthos, watches the way he writhes. Like this, Porthos slowly grows hard again. 

Aramis gasps out a few more times, collects his breath and his words. “Are you ready for me?” 

Porthos laughs, ducks his head, his grin just on the edge of painful. He must mean it as a joke, but it comes out pained when he says, “I’ve been ready for you for four years.” 

The air punches out of Aramis, his breath a wounded gasp. Porthos shakes his head, about to apologize, but Aramis lifts his hand, touches his cheek. 

“I love you,” he says, abruptly, not the way he planned to say it again, not like this – but suddenly not saying it feels too painful. His thumb presses to Porthos’ cheek. “I love you,” he whispers, voice hitching. “God. I love you.” 

He keeps whispering it, closing his eyes, touching at Porthos’ face. He feels him shift above him, lean down. And then Porthos kisses him, swallows down those declarations against his mouth. Aramis whines out but kisses him back. 

“Hey,” Porthos whispers, when they part for breath. Aramis leans up, kissing his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. “Hey,” Porthos says again, his breath distinctly graveled out, hitched up with unshed tears. He can see it reflected in his eyes. He whispers, “Me too. It’s alright.” 

Aramis nods, feels his eyes well up and – absurd, that this is what does it. With a soft kiss, he whispers, “My love.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says back, kissing him as though content to do it for hours – and God, they can now. They can. They could kiss for hours. They could kiss until the sun goes down and back up again, waste away a morning just wrapped up in each other. They can now. 

“You must know I always—”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, quietly, reaching a hand behind him and easing out Aramis’ fingers from inside him. Aramis heaves out heavy breaths, wanting to say more, but it seems Porthos has taken it upon himself now. 

He fists Aramis’ cock in his hand, guides it back, shifts over him until he’s straddling his hips properly, and slowly sinks down against his cock. Aramis’ mouth falls open in a startled gasp and Porthos’ face clenches up in concentration, biting hard at his lip as he eases himself down onto Aramis’ cock. 

“Porthos!” Aramis gasps out, grips Porthos’ thighs. He bites down hard at his own lip, uses every inch of restraint he has not to come from the feeling of it – wanting to see Porthos’ face, wanting Porthos to be relaxed and comfortable, enjoying this feeling again. 

Porthos presses down, lets his full weight rest on Aramis. They both groan – and Aramis swears out, gasping, rolling his hips up in shallow, experimental little thrusts – watching Porthos’ face carefully to make sure it isn’t painful. 

“Hah,” Porthos breathes out after a moment, and his face relaxes – grinning, pressing a hand to Aramis’ stomach to brace himself as he rolls his hips slowly above him, presses down against him, squeezes around his cock. “Yeah – alright. I remember this now.” 

He laughs out, breathlessly, and tips himself forward to brace his hands on either side of Aramis. He leans down, kissing his forehead, and Aramis’ breath hitches, tipping his chin up.

“You alright?” Porthos mumbles. 

“Mmm,” Aramis says, blinking back the tears that still linger there. When he looks up at Porthos, his eyes still look distinctly glassy, too. “I won’t last.”

“I know. But you said that before, too,” Porthos says, starts rocking against him rather mercilessly – rolls his hips down, thrusts downward, squeezes around his cock. It’s enough to make Aramis forget to breathe. 

They move like that together – in tandem, Porthos keeping most of his weight off of Aramis, thrusting down against him. Aramis, rocking his hips up to meet him, gripping his thighs tight, feeling the flex and pull of his muscles, feeling overwhelmed with the sheer feeling of Porthos there – above him, pressing down against him, being inside him. Porthos, _here_. The both of them – here together. 

“You good?” Porthos moans out as he moves against him, stroking his cock in time to Aramis’ thrusts.

Aramis squeezes his thighs, rocks his hips up with a stuttering nod. “You’re so – you’re so beautiful.”

Porthos laughs, ducks his head, his hair flopping into his eyes again. He looks embarrassed for a moment, and the thrust down against Aramis’ cock is particularly merciless as a result. Aramis wants to insist, wants to spell out everything beautiful about Porthos – everything he was never able to forget, never let himself forget—

Aramis so desperately wants to kiss him. Porthos is too far away from him and so he just rolls his hips, runs his hands over him – traces over scars, just drags his fingertips over the feeling of his skin.

But he’s distracted by the way Porthos presses down against him in short, shallow thrusts, until Aramis is seated deep, balls-deep into his ass. Aramis throws his head back and gasps out. And he knows he’s lost. Knows he’s gone. It takes only two more shallow thrusts before he comes. 

Aramis comes inside of Porthos like that, grabs at his thighs and scrambles up to grip his ass, holding him down and rocking his hips up desperately inside of him, moaning out his name, and every blessing and every endearment that floats from his mind to his mouth – not stopping, gasping it out as a prayer. 

Porthos rolls his hips – slower now, letting Aramis empty himself inside of him, running a hand down his chest, holding him in place. Aramis whines out, body shuddering, riding the aftershocks of his orgasm before relaxing slowly against the bed. He smiles up at Porthos – sated and overwhelmed. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, weighted down – all the things he wants to say but is too blown away to. 

Porthos chuckles and Aramis’ desire must be clear on his face, since Porthos does what Aramis hopes he will – leans down and kisses him – slow and filthy. Aramis moans out weakly and kisses Porthos, wrapping his arms around his neck and keeping him there, even as he starts to flag inside of Porthos. They are sticky and sweaty, and Porthos’ cock is thick and hard between them. Aramis wriggles his hips a little, if only to hear the hitch of breath against his mouth. 

“Need a minute?” Porthos asks, once they break apart. He presses their foreheads together and slowly shifts his hips up so that Aramis slips up. They both groan at the absence. Porthos strokes his hair. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers, “fuck me.”

Porthos laughs, settling back again. “Like this?”

“Any way is fine,” Aramis says, hands on his shoulders. “So long as I can touch you.”

Porthos’ expression turns downright tender, looking at him so unbearably fondly that Aramis almost has to look away. He climbs off of him, settling between his legs instead, which Aramis eagerly spreads for him. Porthos ducks his head, kisses his stomach once before fishing around for the oil and coating his fingers again. 

Aramis settles back, propping himself on Porthos’ pillow. Porthos presses two fingers inside of Aramis, stretching him again. Aramis takes the oil with a small whine and coats Porthos’ cock for him, stroking him until he’s slick and hot beneath his fingertips. Porthos’ groan is low and appreciative, thankful – thrusting slowly into his fisted hand. 

“Ready?” Porthos asks, twisting up his fingers. 

Aramis weighs the cock in his hand – remembers the ache of his jaw trying to curl around it, remembers like a distant dream the way Porthos would fill him, so many years ago. He smiles at him sweetly, squeezing his cock. 

“Yes,” he says, because the ache of waiting is too much now and will always be worse than the ache of Porthos inside of him. They have time. They have all the time in the world – but Aramis can’t wait, doesn’t want to wait. Wants it all again. Wants everything. Forever. 

Porthos shifts up to him, laying out over him, hands gentle at Aramis’ inner thighs as he parts his legs. Aramis hooks one leg over Porthos’ arm, lets Porthos hoist it up as he positions himself. Aramis lifts his hips a little to make the angle better – and then Porthos presses his cock up against him. 

Aramis whines out, low and pitched. “Oh,” he moans out, a hiccup of involuntary sound. “Oh…” 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, body shaking with the effort of going slowly, only the head of his cock pressing into him. Another angle might have been better for this, after so long – but like this, he can see Porthos’ face, he can touch him. That’s what he needs. 

Aramis closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating, and nods his head. “Keep going.” 

Porthos presses forward slowly – and pulls almost all the way out. He progresses in little bursts, slowly at first – drawing back, pressing back in. He fucks him in slow, shallow thrusts and Aramis feels himself pulled closer and closer, filled inch by glorious inch. Their breaths are in sync now, a heartbeat out of time – and by the time Porthos is halfway inside of him, Aramis is gasping and desperate, sweat at his brow, his cock twitching with an effort to get hard again. 

Porthos lowers himself down onto his elbows, closing the space between them. He kisses Aramis – slow and gentle. Aramis shifts his leg up and off his arm, hooking it around his waist instead and holding it there, his other foot dragging over Porthos’ calf, feels the hard line of his muscle. Every inch of him is strong. 

Aramis responds to the kiss almost immediately, deepening the kiss with a desperate little whine, holds too tight to Porthos and digs his heel into the small of his back to urge him in deeper. Porthos obeys, fucking into him and stretching him until Aramis can’t breathe. 

Like this, Aramis remembers, Porthos would want to make sure that Aramis can come first. But it’s been too long, too much – and so with a soft curse, Porthos comes. Aramis watches him as he pulses through it, the way his face twists up for a moment, his lips part, the way he moans out Aramis’ name and goes slack, hair at his forehead and temples, teeth digging into his thick bottom lip. Aramis holds his shoulders gently, leans up to kiss him as he comes, as he feels himself grow full of Porthos, thick against him, come inside of him. He groans into his mouth, weakly, squeezing around Porthos and milking him dry. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says on a breath, fucks hard into him a few more times – a few shallow thrusts and then deeper ones, until he is spent. He ducks his head, kisses Aramis’ neck, and Aramis tips his head back – lets his eyes flutter shut, mouth open in silent pleasure. 

They breathe like that, still for a moment. And then Porthos draws back enough to press gentle kisses to Aramis’ face. Aramis hums out, tips his head so Porthos can reach his temple, his forehead, his cheek, his jaw, the dip of his chin. He wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck to keep him there, in case he gets bad ideas about pulling away. 

They stay like that, pressed closer together than they’ve been in so long. Aramis’ shoulders feel lighter, his heart light with love. He has everything. They have time. They have time to scope out everything they’ve lost, everything they’ve missed.

He presses his forehead to Porthos’. Opens his eyes to see the shift of sunlight in Porthos’ eyes, the gentle smile there. Boyish, light – hopeful. Aramis brushes his thumb over his lip, lets Porthos kiss the pad of his thumb in reply. Makes sure it lasts. Lets himself sink into it, drown in it, breathe it in again – his, theirs. Together, theirs. 

They’ve got all the time in the world, now.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), should you need me.


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